When Grief Shakes You

This is Infertility

Seven years ago, we reconnected. It didn’t take long for us to fall in love. We were so alike that it didn’t take much; we just simply fit together.

Three years ago, we were married. It was the easiest transition of our lives. Some people say the first year of marriage is hard. It’s time for you to learn each other and learn to live two separate lives as one. That wasn’t so for us; rather, it was like we were born to live our lives this way: side by side. Together.

Two years ago, something changed. We didn’t see us as just us anymore; we saw ourselves as parents. That nurturing spirit inside us was pulling us toward parenthood, and we started talking of a family and babies, and our life was changed forever. From that point on, we were no longer just us. We were parents awaiting a child.

One year ago, we were shaken by the news of infertility. Our spirits were broken by the percentage of our chances of pregnancy, a number significantly smaller than my own age. Our heads ached from the complicated options we had in order to try and fight it. My body was poked and prodded and loaded with drugs that drove my mind in circles for months. Each month, we hoped, and each month, we lost.

Dealing with infertility has been like fighting my way out of a collapsing pit. I fight to climb out, but I constantly run the risk of falling back to the bottom. Any little thing that happens can send me spiraling. I’m constantly gaining progress, and then losing it. I take a few steps forward, and then dozens of steps back. Everything reminds me of it. It’s a constant, looming cloud. It’s a daily battle, a struggling, endless fight against negativity and bitterness, against jealousy and envy, against guilt and shame, against self-loathing and embarrassment.

This is my struggle. This is my pain and weakness. I know that I am not alone, yet one of the things about infertility is that it makes you feel so incredibly alone, like you’re the only one on earth who cannot get pregnant, like something is wrong with you, like you’ve done something to bring this on yourself, like if you were anyone else on this earth, then this would happen for you. It’s a painful thing to talk about. And for some reason, it’s been one of the most difficult things for me to admit, to the point where I’ve had to practice saying it out loud. I am battling infertility. The doctors told me I couldn’t get pregnant without the assistance of drugs or procedures. I’ve tried fertility treatments and they didn’t work. I may never get pregnant.

I have been working to understand the feeling of shame that overtakes me when I think of my struggle with infertility. Most of it stems from guilt. I feel guilty for something that’s out of my control. I feel sorrow over what I cannot give my husband and family, something that others can effortlessly give theirs, something of which my body as a woman was supposed to have been created to do. I feel guilty not only for how this news has affected me, but for how it affects those around me. I hate that it keeps me from loving those around me the best that I can. I hate that it keeps me from celebrating the joys of others. I hate that I go over every flaw and weakness that I have and wonder if that’s why this has happened.

I’ve spent the last year hiding this from everyone and avoiding talking about it because I’ve felt as though I’ve done something to deserve this. Not only that, but I’ve been afraid that the day that I finally admit it out loud to people will be the day that I establish its permanence in my life. That I am infertile. That I may never get pregnant.

But I am a firm believer that good can always come from our suffering. That our weaknesses can also become strengths. That there is power in putting a voice to your feelings. That in sharing our circumstances, we can help others who are in our same position. That my God is greater than the things of this world, and that He has chosen my husband and me for this life for a purpose that is greater than ourselves.

And so, I have decided that over the next few weeks, I am going to be writing about my experience of dealing with infertility and sharing things I’ve written so far throughout this journey to healing and acceptance.

I will try to be as truthful as possible, and much of my writing may be pain-filled, as it’s written from a place of deep grief that I’m still working through. But I’m hopeful that God is already using this situation for His good, and that ultimately, His glory will be revealed through it.

Still believing life is good.

NCW

“My soul finds rest in God alone, my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken.”

-Psalm 62:1-2